A Shift in Significance
by MmeGiry
Summary: Both have lost something. He an investment, her a child. Could a charitable act after it is all over, change their significance to one another?
1. Epitaph

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Phantom of the Opera, etc.

**Summary:** One shot 'after the movie' story, featuring Firmin, Andre, and Madame Giry. I may add chapters later, if it's well received.

**Relationship:** Possibly Firmin/Giry.

Dedicated to the regulars of the Erik/Giry forum here on You're ALL wonderful!

Special dedications go to twinlady, for just being her, and Sands-agent, for encouraging me to post this!

**A Shift in Significance.**

Richard Firmin jolted awake as the carriage knocked against something hard. A stone, he assumed; or a dead bird. Not that it mattered. He deemed it insignificant. He massaged the back of his neck wearily, and grimaced as the previous nights' disastrous events came flooding back into his tired mind. So the Opera Populaire _had _been destroyed after all, and he had lost a hell of a lot of money. Wonderful.

Luckily, Firmin had more than one source of income. He'd made sure of that before he had invested in the Opera Populaire. Andre had not been so careful. He glanced over at his business partner and friend with a sigh. It seemed that he'd be looking after Andre for quite some time. They had been partners from the very start of their careers. He couldn't leave him to suffer on the streets.

A soft sigh interrupted his thoughts, and he remembered his _other_ guest. Another person that had lost everything. He regarded her sleeping form curiously. She was quite an attractive woman; obviously not as attractive as his various mistresses, but attractive nonetheless. It struck him odd that he had never noticed that before. Simply because before now, Antoinette Giry had been insignificant, just like the stone or the abandoned corpse that the carriage had driven over. Antoinette Giry had lost much more than Andre, and much _much_ more than Firmin himself had lost. They had only lost money. Money could be re-earned, regained; in time of course. But a daughter could not be.

"Poor woman," came to voice of Firmin's partner.

Firmin looked from Giry to Andre with an empty smile. Andre shook his head sadly and resumed staring aimlessly out of the carriage window, silently cursing the… _thing_ that had caused all of this suffering. The thing that probably still lived. Him. The Phantom of the Opera. O.G. It didn't matter what you called him, he was still a monster.

Firmin's gaze floated back to the sleeping ballet mistress, and thought of the relationship between her and her young daughter. Even he, a man who had never taken an interest in the lives of the people working for him, could see that Madame Giry and Meg had been extremely close. Giry would mourn, and Firmin would let her; screaming, crying, throwing priceless antiques and all.

Hell, he'd even join her.

Later into the journey, Firmin found that try as he might, he could not get back to sleep. Andre had long since fallen back into a slumber and Madame Giry had not awoken since they had left Paris. They were both lucky in that regard. His mind was full of images of terror, and panic, and that falling chandelier, destroying everything in its path. He thought of all the people that had lost their lives because of a Phantom's stupid little obsession. Richard lifted his finger to the misty window and softly traced 'R.I.P.' into the condensation that had formed upon it.

"Who? Your friends? Colleagues? Your bank account?"

The voice was bitter; hateful. Antoinette Giry stared at him icily, her anger clearly shining through her steel blue eyes. Firmin let out a heavy sigh, gazing at her sympathetically.

"I couldn't let you stay in Paris. You were homeless."

Giry scoffed, crossing her legs impatiently, tugging on her thick braid. "When did you start caring about your employees?" she questioned. "Yesterday, if I'd been hanging by a thread on the edge of a cliff, you would never have lifted a single finger to help me."

Firmin protested. "That is a lie-"

"The _hell _it is," she spat. "I am insignificant, Monsieur. Just like all your little mistresses. I am no use to you anymore. You should have left me in Paris to die on the streets."

He rolled his eyes in annoyance. He was starting to get angry with the cold woman in front of him. "You'd have liked that, wouldn't you? To die in Paris, just like your daughter did?"

She stared at him incredulously. "You _bast_-"

"Why?" he interrupted. "Because I gave you a home?"

"I never wanted your help. I can take care of myself!"

They were silent for a moment, regarding the other wearily. Both were already tired of fighting. Richard extended his hand, intending to place it upon her shoulder comfortingly. It froze in mid-air, and quickly dropped back to his side.

"Please, Madame," he sighed, his voice adopting a pleading tone. "Let me help you."

Giry gazed at him briefly, considering his request, and then turned to look out of the window. After a moment of tense silence, she turned back to look at him. "Alright. On one condition."

He nodded. "Name it."

"You never ask me about him," Firmin didn't have to ask; he knew who she meant. "If I want you to know, I'll tell you. But that is _highly_ unlikely Monsieur."

Firmin nodded in agreement, quelling his curiosity. At least for now. He held out his hand. Antoinette regarded it briefly, and grudgingly accepted it. They shook hands. Firmin turned back to the misty window, and looked at the text he had scrawled under five minutes ago. Underneath, he added the name 'Meg Giry'.

A tear slipped down Giry's cheek, soon accompanied by several more, and she carefully leaned over Firmin, and using her own finger, added several kisses to the make-shift epitaph. She looked at Richard, almost like a child looking for a parent's approval. Firmin smiled and nodded at her encouragingly. She finally circled the writing with a love heart, and quickly retreated back to her side of the carriage, curling up uncomfortably.

Firmin, noticing Giry's uncomfortable position quickly removed his jacket and folded it into a make-shift pillow, offering it the ballet mistress without a moment's hesitation. Madame regarded him curiously.

"Aren't you uncomfortable yourself?"

Firmin smiled. "Yes. But I'd much rather prefer to be uncomfortable than to see you curled into an awkward position over there. You are, after all, my guest."

Giry accepted the jacket, gratefully, albeit reluctantly. She had always been a proud, independent woman, and Firmin could not imagine the courage it had taken for her to accept his jacket.

She fixed her best stern look upon him, which Firmin and Andre liked to refer to as her 'death glare' "This still does _not_ mean I'm happy about leaving Paris, but… thank you. Just… thank you."

Richard smiled at her, nodding in response to her thank you. Antoinette regarded him silently for a moment, before her mouth curled into a warm smile.

He would never let anything hurt Antoinette Giry again.


	2. Achilles

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Phantom of the Opera, etc.

**Summary:** After the movie, Antoinette muses

**Relationship:** Possibly Firmin/Giry, slight Erik/Giry

Dedicated to twinlady, as usual, and Lady Miranda, who told me that one of my stories inspired hers! Also dedicated to Kirstie, my dear college friend, who is sitting with me right now!

**A Shift in Significance**

Antoinette's eyes slowly opened, as the bright sun began to warm her cheek. She woke with a sigh as the heat became unbearable, as it seared through the window onto her skin. She lifted her head from the glass, and pulled herself into a seating position, careful not to wake the two sleeping managers. It was on days such as this that Antoinette regretted forever wearing black. Meg had often told her that she sorely needed to rethink the colour in her wardrobe.

As usual, her daughter was right.

Meg had always worn whites, and pale, feminine pastel colours. With her brilliant blonde curls, and healthy complexion, she had been born to wear those sorts of colours. And a smile. Meg was the happiest human being that Antoinette had ever known, and to be able to claim that she had mothered such a perfect child made her glow with pride. Of course, even Meg had her faults. Her intense curiosity was one of these faults. Mythology told of the Greek hero, Achilles, and his famed 'Achilles heel' that had led to his demise. Meg's curiosity had been her Achilles heel.

And it had been her undoing in the end.

Christine's Achilles heel on the other hand, had always been her sweet nature, especially her willingness to trust almost anyone. She had trusted Erik, just like she herself had done so long ago. Now, Antoinette was older; wiser. She had ceased trusting Erik on the day that her beloved husband had died. Christine had made the same mistake that she had, but had emerged from the incident unhurt, and with _her_ beloved very much intact.

Antoinette knew Erik must have loved Christine a great deal. After all, he had released her, _and _Raoul. Meg had not been so lucky. She had entered the Phantom of the Opera's domain, and had not returned to her Mother. Antoinette, though detesting the fact, knew that she had been wise to flee Paris. She knew very well that she now meant very little to Erik. He would not hesitate to wrap his lasso tightly around her neck, and slowly squeeze the life out of her for her betrayal, no matter what her reasons had been.

Raoul had accused her of leading him into a trap. And he was probably right. Antoinette had become so accustomed to carrying out Erik's will that she often did it without thinking, or even needing to be told. She had been nothing more than Erik's slave. She snorted lightly to herself. To think they had once been friends, to think he had once adored her.

To think she had once loved him.

She had once loved him. A long time ago, when they were both young, and things were much easier. Erik had not yet dreamed up the idea of becoming 'O.G.' and rather than her being his servant, he worshipped her as a Queen. 'Queen Ann'. His saviour, and rescuer from his captors. Her cane itself served as evidence to his former opinion of her. The engraving on the silver tip said it all. And she had loved _him_. She had also fallen in love with Pierre Giry, and eventually married him, leaving the Opera Populaire to live with her new husband, and prepare for the birth of their first child. Yet, she still loved Erik, and a small part of her wondered; _Could she have married Erik? Could she have had _his_ child?_

And then Pierre's corpse was found.

Strangulation, the officer said.

_Strangulation._

Erik himself had told her that eventually, she would come to fear him, as everyone else did. She had always fervently denied this. However, the moment the officer told her how her husband had died, her blood had turned to ice. Erik had been right, after all.

_Fear can turn to love._

_Love can turn to fear._

_Love _had _turned to fear._

Ann had fallen to her knees in front of the officer, and screamed, and wept for the loss of her husband. And the loss of her innocence. Antoinette would never make the mistake to trust someone so implicitly again. She returned to the Opera Populaire soon after Pierre's death, with her fatherless baby daughter, and took on the role of ballet mistress, and minion to the newly established Phantom of the Opera.

Pierre's death had changed her. She had become cold; aloof. She had taken to wearing the black gowns which would become her trademark, and wrapping her hair into a tight braid, which pulled her pale skin tight over her high cheekbones, and made her appear a much older woman. She had also learned to stand up to Erik, despite her fear of him. She suspected that on some level, he still thought of her as 'Queen Ann', and still felt _something_ for her. And then, one day, he had used the Punjab lasso on her.

_Keep your hand at the level of your eyes._

Her hand had saved her from the same fate that Pierre met, and that one line became her 'catchphrase' of sorts. It was a shame that no one ever listened to her. Buquet hadn't, and his lifeless, hanging corpse now haunted the minds of most of the aristocrats in Paris. That was Buquet's Achilles heel. Ignorance.

And hers?

Her Achilles heel had been struck. Meg was dead. It seemed her weakness was love; and love seemed to be fond of taunting Antoinette, and death seemed to enjoy toying with her. She had lost Pierre, Meg, her brother, her beloved Mother-in-law, Celestine and Gustave Daae… Countless other tragedies haunted Antoinette. Erik was not dead, but she knew that she had lost him a long time ago.

Maybe she had never really had him.

She glanced over at the window that Monsieur Firmin's head rested on. The epitaph had long since disappeared, but Antoinette imagined she could still see the words.

Her heart broke all over again.

"_Oh, Meg. What am I going to do without you?"_

Antoinette closed her eyes and imagined her daughter, her arms wrapped around her father, as they both smiled at her, reunited at last. She ached to join them.

She heard Firmin's voice in her head.

"_Please, Madame. Let me help you."_

She took a deep breath, and shook her head to rid herself of the siren like image.

"_Well… He did ask nicely."_


End file.
